The Homefront
by DormantAllure
Summary: Sherlock has a stalker, the Watsons have a baby and everything is sort of unhinged. A sequel to "Things We Sometimes Miss".
1. Chapter 1

_You are the hole in my head_

_You're the space in my bed_

_You are the silence in between_

_What I thought and what I said_

_\- Florence Welch_

Tuesday is always crap telly night at Baker Street. It is the only one of their new traditions that has stuck. Monday dinners at the Watsons were ruined in equal measure by the demands made by baby Benjamin and Sherlock being clearly uncomfortable engaging in social interaction outside familiar surroundings such as their former bachelor pad. John's suggestion of a Friday pub night was never even tested in practice.

Sherlock was not an advocate for routine nor had John been prior to becoming a father. Benjamin had demonstrated that unless there was some sort of a framework in place, hours and days and weeks would just pass unnoticed and important things would be left undone. Such as John spending time with Sherlock.

On the outside, things had remained much the same when it came to The Work and how John was a part of it. Still, for Sherlock nothing was the same. He'd been forced to reveal his cards by Mary, for which he was both thankful and furious.

John had not exactly returned his admission of… fondness. But he hadn't rejected him either. After realizing John could suspend him in such a limbo practically forever, he had tried to behave like before, as though the conversation initiated by Mary had not ever even happened.

John had become more difficult to read after The Fall.

John's phone beeps right after he has turned the sound back on after bidding farewell to the last of the day's patients.

WHAT TIME SHOULD YOU BE EXPECTED TO ARRIVE? SH

THE USUAL? John replies. Sherlock knows full well he always arrives at around six, takeaway containers in hand. Then they do their little dance of Sherlock complaining about the selection and John pointing out that Sherlock had just hours earlier clearly stated that selecting food was dull and he had no desire in involving himself in such a useless activity. Surely Sherlock wouldn't have deleted all that.

VERY WELL. BRING PLYWOOD. SH

? John sends back, knowing this to be futile. Sherlock would know he'd obey even if no explanation was provided. There is no reply.

Styrofoam containers adorn the table and the only light in the room is from the television. Neither John nor Sherlock have bothered to get up to switch on the lights as twilight gives way to darkness.

John has brought the food and a large slab of plywood that stands against the foyer wall, seemingly forgotten. John is certain Sherlock will get to it eventually and he is no hurry to inquire as to its use.

At the moment, though, Sherlock seems to have forgotten all about it. He has been a ball of nervous energy ever since John arrived some hours earlier, pacing back and forth mumbling about in comprehensive details. This is not unusual in itself.

Now he is perched on the sofa backrest, fingers crossed beneath his chin as he stares absent-mindedly at the screen.

John shifts in his chair. They're watching The Wheel of Fortune, one of Sherlock's favorites in terms of verbal massacre of on-screen imbeciles. Tonight, however, he has refrained from his usual commentary.

"Sherlock?" John asks, not really expecting an answer on the first try. "Hey?"

"Mmh?" comes a reply. No eye contact, though. Sherlock's eyes remain towards the flickering images.

"Are you alright?"

Finally, there's a reaction. Sherlock carefully folds his hands onto his laps and slides down onto the cushions. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Let's see. There's only three letters left, even I can guess the answers and you still haven't pointed out what idiots the competitors are."

Sherlock shoots him a nasty look. "I am quite alright."

"Despite what Mary might think, I do at least sometimes know when you're fibbing. Anyway, you haven't said a word all night. Sorta makes me feel like my company isn't welcome."

Sherlock looks almost startled. He looks at John carefully but avoids full eye contact. "I assure you, it's quite the contrary."

"Thanks, I guess." John decides to drop the questioning. "What's with the plywood?"

Sherlock stands up. "Come along," he remarks dryly and disappears into the hallway leading to his bedroom. John joins him after standing up and stretching his legs, which feel a bit prickly after their gameshow session.

He joins Sherlock in his bedroom. John has rarely been inside but has delivered in enough laundry to know that it is usually kept in immaculate condition.

Sherlock is holding the plywood against a hole in the window. A hole that is leaking in rainwater. A couple of glass shards are scattered on the floor. John grabs a tissue from a packet on the nightstand and picks two of them up. "You should vacuum this, you know, there might be smaller ones that are hard to spot."

Sherlock doesn't reply. He's sticking his hand through the hole in the window and John winces - he might cut himself on the spiky shards still attached to the window frame. It's as though he's attempting to measure something.

"What happened here, then?"

"That is what I have been attempting to discern. However, the window is not the main problem."

John takes a look around the room. It smells like it usually does - of dust and old papers with a faint undertone of Sherlock's aftershave - and the rain is adding a damp edge to it. There doesn't seem to be anything amiss with the spartan furniture collection. The bed us unmade, which is unusual but could just be because Sherlock has woken up with something urgent in mind. "I don't see anything else wrong." He steps to the window, carefully sidestepping the area where most of the glass was, and helps Sherlock duct tape the plywood onto the hole. The draft stops but it's still chilly. Sherlock seems to be shivering in his shirtsleeves and John has a sudden urge to circle him and rub his arms to bring a little warmth.

He doesn't.

Mary is usually very tactile when in the presence of them both. As a woman it is somehow more socially acceptable to pat, to ruffle, to hug or nudge. John used to do some of that but after the conversation skirting around certain feelings experienced by certain consulting detectives John doesn't really know where the limits are. Suddenly even the faintest and most innocent of touches seem to carry an air of something else, something yet undefined.

It's not as though John wants to keep away. He just doesn't really know what he wants. Or what Sherlock wants. Or what Mary wants, permits or hopes for. John still doesn't trust her fully enough to expect complete emotional honesty on what she is willing to witness.

John does not know if Sherlock senses this invisible wall between them as well. Nor does he know if Sherlock would want him to breach it or not.

Sherlock sighs. "As usual, John, you - -"

"Yeah, yeah. Spare me the lecture."

Sherlock straightens his shoulders. "On Friday morning the dust on top of the cupboard had a line, as though someone had been running their fingers along it. The next night I woke up to something and only in the morning I realized a book had fallen from the table. It was in the middle of it. On Monday morning I realized the window latch was broken - cut with bolt cutters, to be precise. I had it repaired. And last night I stayed out later than I had anticipated, and when I returned I found the window smashed. The glass shard pattern fit a round object being thrown through but said object was nowhere to be found."

"Maybe someone just smashed it by holding something in their hand?" John suggests.

Sherlock crosses his arms. "The pattern doesn't fit. Quite elementary physics, really. Did they not require at least grade school level science knowledge for medical school?"

"Haven't had much use for that after my GCSEs." Sherlock looks at him with wonderment.

"Anything missing, I mean stolen?"

"Nothing. I have gone through all of my belongings. Nothing is missing, nothing has been damaged beyond the window."

"Are you sure the book and the dust aren't your own doing, like waking up in the middle of the night, a bit disoriented, bumping against things?"

Sherlock looks indignant, like he is offended at John's suggestion that he might sometimes be tired or disoriented.

"Alright, then. Let's say you're being visited at night by someone with an interest in your cleaning habits and yours reading selections. How would they get in? You mentioned the latch?"

"I would have noticed it the first time I went through this room. It seems like someone is trying to stage themselves to be worse at burglary than they actually are. Why do all the subtle things first, and then resort to window-smashing?"

"Maybe they wanted to scout out the place first and then start intimidating you?"

"They're not interested in this apartment. Otherwise I don't think they would have followed me around town as much as they have. They've done a much better job of that than the burglary, very subtle. Still, I think we can safely rule out Moriarty."

John raises his eyebrows. "How'd you leap to that?"

"He should know better than that. I cannot be intimidated by such childish antics."


	2. Chapter 2

You'll find me in the lake

With the death I tried to face

With my hands already blue

Holding photographs of you

\- Kyla La Grange

"He should know better than that. I cannot be intimidated by such childish antics."

After observing Sherlock all evening, John would beg to differ but says nothing. Sherlock seems on edge, and it's different from his usual behavior during intriguing cases. He does not seem excited or delighted. Instead, there is an almost paranoid undertone to the way he is finding meaning in dust patterns and misplaced books. Sherlock is finely attuned to his surroundings, but this feels like much ado about nothing, even for him. "There must be something else, then."

Sherlock sits down onto his unmade bed. John doesn't see his face since neither of them has bothered to switch on the light.

John sits down next to him. It's quiet. Usually he would enjoy such a meditative moment in the midst of his now hectic life but the knowledge that someone might be visiting the apartment without their consent is making him slightly nervous.

John realizes he'd be much more on edge if he was still living here. It's easy for him, going back to his and Mary's brownstone with its warm hues, comfortable rooms and baby sounds.

Baker Street has been felt a bit empty in a way after he had moved out. The feeling must have been so much more acute to Sherlock. After all, John moved away because he had gained things in his life. For Sherlock, this was mostly about losing them, as much as John had tried to convince himself that Sherlock was gaining some resemblance of family as well.

It would never be like that. At least not if things between him and John remained in this stagnation of sorts.

"Someone has been following me. They have been quite meticulous in avoiding the CCTV and that is probably why they chose this window."

"Have you received any emails, letters or anything of that sort that seems suspicious? Since nothing was stolen and you haven't been harmed - -" Yet, John adds silently in his mind, feeling a sudden chill go through him, "They might be trying to communicate."

"'Communicate'. You sound like you think it might be a ghost," Sherlock scoffs.

"What do you think they're after, then?"

"Hard to say at this point. Trying to gauge a reaction? A test of some sorts?"

"That sounds like Moriarty. Are you certain it couldn't be him?"

Sherlock lifts his leg onto the mattress and crosses his fingers around his knee. "Moriarty likes games, yes, but this feels too small in scale for him. He's grandiose, dramatic and has difficulty keeping in the shadows because he loves a good entrance. I can't see him going from the crown jewels and hacking large broadcasting networks to throwing bricks through windows. I have discerned it was the end of a brick. They must have taken it with them, sending a signal that they had entered the flat once again."

"How do you want to approach this, then? Mycroft hasn't been able to provide any surveillance insight?"

"No. He is as useless as ever. I have thought about setting up a camera here but I think it likely that the culprits would be masked anyway."

"Why haven't you called in the glass company, then? Or boarded up the windows?"

"If this person indeed wishes to communicate, the reply I do not wish to give is that I am bothered by their antics."

"I get that, but- -"

John can feel Sherlock's gaze on him even though they're both shrouded in darkness. "If you are insinuating that they are succeeding in their intimidation tactics I assure you, I am fine."

John knows his former flatmate well enough to know it would be fruitless to argue. They give the now plywood-boarded window a once-over and return to the offerings of the BBC.

That night, Sherlock drinks a lot of tea. Tea that John makes and Sherlock keeps requesting more. It almost seems as though he is trying to keep John busy so he wouldn't leave.

The evening film has ended, the last tube has gone and John is yawning. Sherlock does not seem fatigued, but he is not his usual frantic self either. He seems on edge.

Mary has texted, inquiring of John's schedules. John knows she likes to share the night bottle duty. This gives them both at least a couple of hours of uninterrupted bedrest, if not sleep.

John stands up. "I've got to call it a night. Think I might be able to catch a cab from here or should I walk to the nearest big street?"

Sherlock puts down his now empty mug on the coffee table. "At this hour on a Tuesday approximately two cabs every half an hour drive by since we are approximately four kilometers from the nearest theaters with evening shows."

"I'll try and skip the serial killer ones, then," John jokes. Sherlock is not listening. "Anyway," he says, grabbing his coat and slipping into his shoes,"I'm off. The clinic isn't too overrun at the moment so if there's a case text me and I'll see what I can do."

"Right." Sherlock stands up, looking like he has forgotten something. He never walks John to the door - it's one of those social niceties he can't see the point of - but at least he usually acknowledges John's departure with some discernible expression.

John pauses, hand on the doorknob. "Are you sure you're alright?" The question is moot, he knows what the answer will be.

This seems to shake Sherlock out of his reverie. "Yes, yes, of course." He straightens his spine and manages a smile that looks more sad than encouraging.

John's footsteps disappear down the stairs and the apartment becomes uncomfortably quiet.

John reaches home some forty minutes later. As theorized by Sherlock, it only took him some fifteen minutes to haul a cab from in front of Speedy's.

By the time he closes the door behind him and flicks on the foyer light in his and Mary's home, he has received three texts.

SAY HELLO TO MARY FOR ME. SH

AND THE BABY. IN THE MORNING. SH

THANK YOU FOR THE PLYWOOD. SH

John shakes his head. He has a nagging feeling that there is something he should be able to deduce from all this, but he is tired and Sherlock is an adult who can take care of himself. A seemingly harmless recurrent burglar doesn't even come close to some of their previous foes. This small-time criminal will likely scamper when Moriarty will make his inevitable grand return to the battlefield that is Sherlock's life.

He's lucky - Benjamin doesn't wake up when he quietly goes about his evening business, brushing teeth and whatnot. He slides into bed next to Mary, placing his phone on the dresser by old habit.

A warm hand snakes to his waist from somewhere under the duvet. John likes how this is so easy, so natural. Unlike the tentative emotional tug-of-war, the walk on eggshells walk around Sherlock.

"Hey," Mary whispers.

John kisses her neck, mostly getting a mouthful of hair but he hopes the gesture still counts.

"Sherlock says hi."

Mary turns to face him. "Really? Has he decided to give social convention another try, then?" she jokes.

"He just texted me."

"Anything new up with him?" Mary inquires, adjusting her pillow. "You stayed quite late. I don't mind, really."

"Someone's been breaking in. Messing with stuff but nothing's been stolen. Last night they broke a window and made sure that we'd realize they'd been in the flat again."

"The living room, or…?"

"Sherlock's room, apparently."

Mary frowns. "That sounds a bit worrying, really. How's Sherlock taking it?"

"What do you mean?" John deflects and yawns. He's a bit tired of thinking about this, tired after unsuccessfully trying to pry answers from Sherlock.

"Imagine if someone starting breaking in in here."

"That's different. Sherlock's a martial artist and there are no babies at Baker Street."

Mary sits up. "Yes, but still. He didn't seem scared in any way?"

"He says he doesn't want to give them the satisfaction. Sherlock doesn't really do scared, you know."

Mary looks at him like he's a tad bit daft and then Mary's phone beeps. She has apparently adopted John's habit of keeping it close all the time. She grabs it and keys in the access code. After reading the message she passes the phone to John, flings the duvet off herself, and leaves the bed. "Right," she says, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear, and starts looking for her clothes.

"Mary, what - -" John starts, at he begins reading the message.

IS JOHN HOME YET? SH

John wants to ask Mary why she has abandoned their warm bed, but she has already disappeared from the room and judging by the sounds from the foyer, is looking for their car keys.

An hour later, Mary return with a rather weary-looking Sherlock in tow. John is waiting for them in the living room. He doesn't say anything, just looks expectantly at Mary.

"John, if you would be so kind as to put some sheets in the guest room. I think we all need a good night's sleep."

The glance Sherlock gives John is hard to interpret. He doesn't look guilty, doesn't look as though he has orchestrated all this as part of some elaborate ploy. He just looks tired, slightly out of place and a lot less relaxed than John remembers seeing him that night when still at Baker Street.

John passes Sherlock a pillow from their couch. On the rare occasions when he has seen Sherlock sleep in an actual bed he seems to favor two pillows and their guest room bed only has one.

In the guestroom, Sherlock stands, looking a bit clueless, as John quickly make a passable bed with some old spare sheets.

When John stops to admire his handiwork, he noticed Sherlock pinching the bridge of his nose. "John - - I apologize for this travesty of a slumber party. Mary was quite adamant that I should not stay at Baker Street tonight."

John is too tired to think about boundaries, about difficult conversations and about needs and wants and relationships. He turns to Sherlock, places his hands on his best friend's shoulders, pulling him quite close and looks him in the eye. "Honestly, Sherlock. It's all fine. Just go to sleep."


	3. Chapter 3

Love was my shoreline

I stare myself blind

\- Lykke Li

Hours later, Sherlock is still lying awake. He knows he could sleep safely here, but the restlessness will not abate. There aren't enough clues, not enough puzzle pieces and this is all so distracting, which is dangerous, since he ought to be preparing for Moriarty, whose reappearance seems inevitable. Preparing how, he doesn't know. This is not the stagnation he feels between cases. This is heightened anxiety levels, torturous waiting and the hateful, hateful abyss that he feels every time he looks at John.

Sherlock is almost relieved when the baby begins to wail. He leaves the bed before there is any sound from John and Mary's bedroom and walks to the hallway. There he pauses, unsure what the etiquette in such a situation would be. He does not really know how to comfort an infant and he is certain that soon one of its parents will investigate the reason for the commotion. All Sherlock knows is that he does not want to return to bed, doesn't want to return to just his own thoughts in the dark.

Footsteps, then the creaking of the bedroom door. John appears, and Sherlock can just barely make out that he's running his hand through his hair. He almost bumps into Sherlock in the hall and before Sherlock can even realize what is transpiring, John elbows him in the solar plexus, startled. He'd been so preoccupied with his thoughts that it never crossed his mind what a half-asleep and somewhat disoriented John might do to someone he might mistake for an intruder in the dark hallway.

There's no time to rethink all that now. Instead, Sherlock's vision swims with dots and stars and there's just so much stabbing pain. He drops to his knees without realizing it and soon John joins him on the floor.

"God! Sherlock, I'm sorry, I - - I didn't think, I didn't realize you were up - -"

Sherlock tries to reassure him it's fine, really, he's the victim of his own stupidity but the wind has been knocked out of his lungs and he can only manage half a wheeze, holding his ribcage. When he finally manages to draw a breath it stabs, burns, sears and he leans a hand on the wall to keep from toppling over completely.

In a moment both Mary and John are at his side. "What the hell, John?" Mary's inquiring and Benjamin is frantic, possibly alarmed by the strange commotion outside his room.

"Sherlock was skulking out here like Nosferatu and I sort of took him down."

"Can you handle this without me?" Mary asks, shooting a very concerned glance at Sherlock, who's not scrambling to his feet.

"I think so, yeah. Just go see to Benjamin. I'll be there in a minute." Mary turns on her heels and heads to the nursery. John switches on the light.

Sherlock leans on the wall, trying his best to keep his breathing shallow. Anything more proper hurts so much his eyes are watering. Soon John's hands are everywhere - gently prodding his collar bones, snaking under his t-shirt which is sort of ticklish.

"I'm sorry mate, never saw you there. Can you tell me what hurts?"

"Breathing, basically." John helps him take the t-shirt off entirely. The hallway is drafty, Sherlock makes note and realizes the pain is slowly lessening since he's able to observe his surroundings. John quickly feels through his ribs, finding a sweet spot on the right lower part of the ribcage. Sherlock nearly topples as his calloused fingers graze the two ribs that crepitate underneath his touch. "Two cracked ones. You'll need to take something for the pain."

"Can't you fix it?"

John smiles apologetically, the memory of his fingers still haunting Sherlock's skin. This would have been precious is he hadn't been in such pain. Sherlock has always felt guilty of this, of his fondness for John's touch right when the other man doesn't even realize he's entertaining thoughts beyond platonic. Is this all he deserves, innocent moments his mind perverts into the hope of something more?

"There's no quick fixing rib fractures. Thank God I didn't deck you on the side they had to operate on."

Sherlock supports his aching chest with his arm and together they make haste to the kitchen, where John quietly passes him two tablets. Sherlock does not inquire what they are, merely accepts the gift with its accompanying glass of water. They sit in silence for awhile. The pain doesn't stop but subsides.

John ruffles his hair when he finally leaves to relieve Mary from baby bottle duty. "Sorry, Sherlock," he repeats like a broken record.

Is this what they will continue to have to do until death parts them, hurt one another and apologize until the next stab? At least this is real, proper pain - not the invisible kind that has been their lingering companion since Sherlock had said his goodbyes on the rooftop.

He never knows what he wants exactly, apart from 'more'.

John has disappeared from the kitchen. Sherlock follows him into the nursery like a shadow.

Benjamin is standing in his crib, eyes almost black in the moonlight from the window. He's watching quietly as John adjust his bedding. His gaze fixes on Sherlock when he enters. It's strange to receive someone's unwavering attention like this. Benjamin raises his arms.

John looks up from the drawer he is rummaging through.

"May I?" Sherlock asks.

John nods. "Of course you can."

Sherlock gingerly picks up baby Watson and settles into a nearby armchair. Benjamin flails his arms a bit but settles then for a stare.

It's strange how adults staring at one another feels awkward but this gaze is so different. It observes. It does not judge, interpret or have ulterior motives.

"He likes looking at you."

"Perhaps because I do not resort to making ridiculous faces."

"Babies like that sort of thing."

"Maybe this baby is too clever to fall for such antics."

"Course he's clever. He's mine."

"I admit I am surprised at the trust with which you allow me to handle him."

John looks serious. "I would never worry for a second when he's with you. You might now sing nursery rhymes or know how to prepare a bottle but I don't think has much to worry about with someone as protective and loyal."

Sherlock waves his hand in a arc across all the baby things in the room to make a point. "This is tough. Taking care of him all the time."

"You know what they say, what doesn't kill you - -"

"That premise is entirely false. What doesn't kill you will not make you stronger, it will merely take a piece of you until there is very little left, if hardship are plentiful enough."

John doesn't reply.

"I meant it, you know."

"Meant what?"

"When I said I was sorry about leaving."

"You don't need to keep apologizing. I know what you did for me. For us."

The ambiguous nature of the pronoun hangs in the air like a question mark.

"What I did does little to take away what it was for you when I was gone."

"Sherlock. If it wasn't for you I'd probably not have met Mary, I'd have been too busy. I wouldn't have Ben and we wouldn't be enjoying this lovely 3 am chat."

"If it wasn't for me you may have met Mary, had a family, Mary would have sorted out Magnussen and you would not have had to watch me leave twice."

John stops and looks at him carefully. "I know you want me to keep beating you up about it - -"

"Proverbially," Sherlock reminds him and John smiles.

"But what I should be doing instead is reminding myself that you probably had it as hard. I never asked and you never offered to tell and I won't ask now but it's likely you went through something during those two years that will stay with you forever."

"How do you reason that?"

"You're the same but not the same. The same pompous arse, but it's like you've had time to think about your priorities. Not as reckless, more calculated. Still as useless when it comes to emotions, though."

"I'm even more sorry that it's no longer safe. Anywhere. Ever. The game is now on the homefront."

"You've had crazy fans before, assassins after you, stuff like that."

"With clearer motives and gentlemanly rules of conduct. This is personal, not utilitarian."

"You mean this nighttime stalker of yours or Moriarty?"

"Both." Benjamin is now asleep, and John picks him up gingerly from Sherlock. The baby warmth soon disappears from his arms. Sherlock feels what must somehow resemble what John must go through every minute of every day - fear for this small human creature, fear that someone might be evil enough to wish it ill. It's terrible. He now has more to lose than ever.

They watch Benjamin for awhile, neither certain if the conversation has run its course or not.

"I wish you told me more often what goes on in your head," John whispers as they retreat to the kitchen. John pours then both a glass of wine without asking permission. "Nightcap," he offers. Sherlock means to inquire whether he should worry about an interaction with the painkillers but realizes he does not really care. The pain is not just a dull ache but if he makes a sudden movement or takes a deeper breath the stabbing sensation returns.

"I want to stop with the apologizing. Judging by our history, we'll going to keep on hurting each other forever. I'm powerless to leave and you seem equally unwilling so let's just… Not."

John kneads his eyes with his fingers. "It's sad if you feel that way. Despite all the really bad parts, you know I love this, what we do."

"What we are."

John smiles but does not meet his gaze. "I'm still waiting for you to define it a little better."

"You are more familiar with the conventions of relationships. You will need a way to explain to Benjamin the amount of time you spend with me and the role I play in your life. I fear at some point you will being to consider what kind of things you wish or do not wish for him to learn concerning relationships."

"The things that I want him to get are basically that life is bloody complicated and that it's very possible and even preferable to have many important people in your life."

The wall has not moved. It's as though John encourages these nonsensical conversations that instead of clarifying things dig their trenches deeper.

Sherlock needs to shake him out of his reverie. Words do not work, he's never had the right ones, just vagueness and confusion and half-truths and compromise.


	4. Chapter 4

You're pushing down on my shoulders

And emptying my lungs

And in a moment I'm older

In a moment, you've won

And you escape me

Like it's nothing

Like words I never should have said

\- The Broods

The next morning, John goes to work in the clinic. Sherlock glares at the toast Mary makes him for forty minutes, feeling languid and useless. He offers to help with laundry and Mary looks at him as though he's gone off the deep end. His chest throbs incessantly.

Mary suggests taking a nap. Sherlock looks at her as though she's gone off the deep end. Hours later, she tires of his hovering and sends him to the shops for detergent. Two blocks away from the flat Sherlock realizes he has forgotten his scarf and doesn't even know where the nearest whatever place that might sell detergent is. He wanders aimlessly around a park, waiting for the inevitable. Mycroft, that is.

He's waiting for Sherlock on a park bench nearby. Perhaps Mycroft is tracking his phone again. Sherlock decides there's no changing his idiot brother and that he doesn't even care. He sits down on the bench. Better get this over with then.

Mycroft takes in his somewhat disheveled appearance. He's wearing one of John's jumpers underneath his unbuttoned coat since he'd neglected to bring any spare clothes. Mary had basically grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to the car without giving him time to protest.

"You look frightening," Mycroft evaluates. "Stockinette stitch, Sherlock?" It's not a question, it's a diagnosis.

"I am not wearing his jumper as a totem of carnal relations," Sherlock remarks dryly, squinting in the sunlight.

"I did not insinuate that."

"No, but you would have thought of it next."

"Quite possibly."

"I doubt you are here to discuss fashion statements."

"I am here to remind you of your obligations."

"I am not your errand boy, Mycroft," Sherlock hisses, "There's been no sign of Moriarty."

"You are the errand boy of the Crown whether you like it or not."

"I was under the impression that my exile was lifted."

"What they give, they can take away. Are you preparing for Moriarty?"

"How does one exactly do that?"

"By solving less important present issues quickly and effectively. Such as the reasons you have seen fit to remove yourself from Baker street to play house with the Watsons. Or could it be you are having a holiday - -" Mycroft makes holiday sound like one of the mortal sins.

"I don't do holidays," Sherlock snarls. "You could have just texted. There's no reason to get your next trousers creasy just to see me. I imagine you can do that easily from your laptop."

"I needed to see why the Watsons have sheltered you like a stray. It is most unbecoming."

Sherlock scoffs. "I am not in need of sheltering. I needed time to think of a plan to - -"

Mycroft silences his little brother with a stern look. "You have not been sleeping even though there are no cases. Mary Watson dragged you out of Baker street and you did not seem to be protesting much. This was not a planned occasion nor is this the meditational retreat you claim. The only likely reason for your departure is that the Watsons deemed it necessary to stage some sort of an intervention concerning your well-being or that you were in danger and refused to remove yourself from it. Anything compromising your security or your abilities to ward off Moriarty are of great concern to me."

"I will be ready when he appears." Sherlock stands up, wincing. "Until then, be a dear and Back. The. Hell. Off."

"Do refrain from raising your voice on the street, Sherlock." He takes in the thin film of sweat that has formed on Sherlock's forehead and his slightly hunched posture. "Are you injured? If yes, then you need to get it looked at. I could arrange - -"

"No. It's just a couple of bruised ribs."

"I'm certain modern medicine could hasten - -"

"John says it can't and that's good enough for me."

Mycroft looks indignant. Sherlock glares dagger at him.

"At least you have not succumbed to depression so deep you would have lost your courteous demeanour. Very well, then. I will leave you to your devices and hope that you are not idling away. Before I leave, however, if you would be so kind as to tell me who this is." Mycroft passes him a folder. Inside is a grainy black-and-white photograph clearly captured from CCTV footage. It's a man, that much is easy to tell. Perhaps blond haired, fit, wearing a jogging outfit. He's standing on the support beams of Speedy's awning.

"On three separate occasions this man has entered the back of the building where regrettably no cameras are located. The first time he appeared and was photographed, he climbed the awning in the middle of the night to peer in through the livingroom window."

"I have no idea. Someone has been breaking into the flat but has left little clues as to his identity."

"And you have not been able to discern which one of your numerous enemies could be behind this?"

Sherlock sighs and does not reply.

"If I might suggest a more proactive strategy then moping around John and Mary's flat?" Mycroft taps his wristwatch. "You never know when more pressing matters will arise."

Sherlock leaves, determined to find that detergent and slip some of it into Mycroft's tea. The git is right, though. If Sherlock wants to win the round, he'll need to go on the offensive. He whips out his phone and opens his blog's editor window. He starts typing.

'Thursday 7th March 2015. Dearest nocturnal visitor. Would wish to have a word. Tonight at 6pm. You know the address. This time knock first like decent people."

Hours later, Mary is teaching him to bottle-feed Benjamin, who is gulping down his milk eyes closed, serene. Sherlock is amazed that he could produce such a state in an infant just by holding it like this. "I look ridiculous doing this." The little boy opens his eyes and their gazes meet.

Mary laughs. "Yes, you sort of do but he sure doesn't care."

Sherlock decides he can live with that.

"Any news?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Not unless you count being visited by a dusty old spectre who had nothing useful to offer."

"Mycroft."

Mary is clever, indeed. Sherlock can't hate her. She understands, in many ways even better than John, who is too busy asserting his heterosexual facade to really observe instead of just seeing.

"He made a claim that I left Baker street because I was a) in danger, b) not well."

"He left out c) scared like any sane person would be."

"I am not your average - -"

"I know serial killers are what you do before breakfast after flossing, you've no qualms about violence and danger is what you sustain yourself with instead of food. Still, I'd have to admit this is making you on edge more than usual. Any particular reason?"

Mary is cooking again. God, how do all these people abide wasting so much precious time on the preparation and consumption of sustenance?

"I had an admirer when younger. A rather persistent one. He'd convinced himself we were meant to be together, that I was going to be the next reigning criminal in Britain and he was to be my consort. I could not convince him I never had a career in crime in mind."

"What happened?"

"Mycroft sorted it out, embarrassingly. I was emotionally unequipped to deal with such a scenario at that time."

"And now you are?"

"I have to admit this has brought some not-so-pleasant memories from that time to mind. This I'd rather have stayed locked down in the palace. Quite ridiculous."

"Before John, it was just you. It didn't matter if someone threatened you or broke into Baker Street. Now you have us you have chosen to worry about, and maybe you also worry for yourself now. If something happens to you you won't be here to sort things out for us."

"I have faith in your capabilities, Mary - -"

"Sherlock Holmes, you have little faith in the capabilities of anyone besides yourself or Moriarty."

Sherlock averts his eyes. Mary's comment feels somewhat insulting. "I still don't know who this is. Mycroft had a photo but it's too grainy to make out any details especially since the idiot printed it with a regular printer."

"Are you certain this couldn't be the same person as back then?"

"Quite certain. He was a small-minded young man with no capability for grand plans or subtlety."

A key turns in the door, John is returning. After discarding his clothes - slightly more slowly than usual, as though he needs to be shifting something from hand to hand, Sherlock notices by listening to his movement. Benjamin has fallen asleep on his lap and he doesn't dare to move.

John enters, carrying a large bouquet of red roses. Sherlock dislikes this, John flaunting his devotion for Mary in front of him, but when he sees John's face melt into a lovely display of fondness, love and admiration, he can't stay angry for long. He likes to think some of this jumble of beautiful emotion might perhaps be directed at him and not just the sleeping boy on his knees.

John is lingering in front of him, waiting for something. Mary picks up Benjamin gingerly from him and Sherlock stretches his knees, which have been in the same position for too long. When he looks up, John is offering him the flowers.

It all stops, the cogs turning in his brain grind to a halt. He accepts the flowers tentatively. John's somewhat solemn expression is incompatible with a romantic gesture like this. Mary observes them with caution.

The scent is lovely. The roses are blood red, fresh. Sherlock is so very confused. "John…?"

"I swung by Baker street on the way home. These were left for you by the door. There's a card."

Indeed there is. It says "Thank you for the invitation. See you at six."

Sherlock lays the flowers on the table. They drip rainwater. "Mary?" Sherlock asks and John think he looks very serious.

"Yeah?"

"You asked if this might possible be the same person and I told you it was impossible. I now know my deduction was tragically false."


	5. Chapter 5

I am laden but strong enough

For loving hard and fighting rough

Knock me down and break my bones

This won't stop me walking home

\- Saint Saviour

They are sitting in the dark again. Sherlock has claimed John's chair for the purpose of a clear line of sight to both the hallway and the entrance to their former flat. John is standing in the kitchen, too expectant and adrenaline-high to sit down. They are waiting.

"You think he'll break in?"

Sherlock joins his fingers underneath his chin in his classic thinking pose. "He's been INVITED, John. Burglary would be somewhat blasé at this point."

"True. It's still half past five, mind you. I have to say I was a little surprised you would jump in headfirst like this. If I didn't know better I'd have said this person sort of managed to make you pretty iffy."

Sherlock gives him a dirty look which John can barely make out in the twilight. "I don't do 'iffy', John."

"Don't get stuck on the semantics. Who is this guy then?"

"Matthew is - was - the heir to the Waterston coal empire. We studied at Oxford together. I use the past tense because he has been surpassed in the inheritance order by his younger brother. Matt proved himself too volatile and troubled in that respect. He had quite an infatuation on me and attempted to woo me with cliched and grand romantic gestures such a red roses."

"So that's how you knew. What was that about him being some sort of a psychopath groupie?" John immediately regrets his words but before he could start smoothing over his insinuation, Sherlock continues.

"What Matthew wanted was danger and excitement. Considering some of my prominent personality traits at that time he was not the only now who thought I might be depressed and harboring some sort of monstrous plan against humanity. He became quite the nuisance. He was dismissed but continued to harass me. At one point Mycroft assigned me a security detail. I grew tired of all that and eventually dropped out. I admit Waterston was one of the reasons I wanted to disappear off the radar."

"It must've been terrible to have to quit Oxford for that."

Sherlock looks bored. "I didn't really quit just because of that. I had, in a way, made up my mind to leave some time prior. Most people in Oxford were idiots and I had already surpassed many of my professors in terms of knowledge base."

John laughs.

"Well, I still think you're quite brave for agreeing to meet him face to face after all that."

It would be reasonable to expect Sherlock to bristle at such praise but when it comes from John he beams. In secret.

"I'm sorry you have to involve yourself with such an individual."

"You're in no state to wrestle a nut job with those ribs. Besides, when have you ever apologized for dragging me into anything?" John crosses him arms.

"Now that you have a family, your priorities have shifted. Are you not scared for them?"

"My son is with my combat-trained wife, and every criminal we sweep off the streets makes it a little safer for us all. It's a win-win scenario in my book. I worry for you the most. I'm not collateral damage if I come willingly."

Sherlock is forced to endure nd gnash his teeth for an hour more, until they hear steps in the staircase. They are not tentative careful steps but the stride of someone confident.

John is nervous, curious and not merely a little worried for Sherlock. Sherlock, who looks like he's expecting either a ghost or a madman to enter.

Their visitor looks like neither. He is dressed in a sharp dark grey suit, carrying a largish rectangular gift-wrapped item like a suitor. John straightens his spine. Matthew Waterston is handsome - not to the extent of looking like a model, but a pleasant-looking person nonetheless. To John he looks harmless.

Sherlock slowly ascends for the sofa and seems to grow a few inches on top on his usual height. His expression is stern.

"Holmes," their visitor acknowledges and it seems like he's trying to decide whether to extend a handshake offer towards John. "And this must be Watson." It is not a question.

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Sherlock gestures towards the farthest armchair. "Sit." This is not a suggestion or a request.

Waterson does so, looking more comfortable than a burglar ever should in John's opinion.

"It would be convention to enquire after your health, but evidently is it good enough to climb up awnings so I will spare my breath," Sherlock remarks.

"What," John opens, "Prey tell, do you want?"

Waterston raises his eyebrows. "I was under the impression you no longer lived here. What's all this to you, then, John?"

John is tempted to reply that anything putting Sherlock on the edge is very much his business but decided that underlining any vulnerability of Sherlock's at the moment would probably be rather destructive. "I don't think you have much leverage here, Waterston."

Waterston sighs dramatically and John thinks he sound not unlike Sherlock. For a moment he wonders what sort of a pair the two of them could have been. This makes him feel rather protective. With the wrong influence who knows where Sherlock would have ended up.

"You have it all backwards. I don't actually care for Sherlock much. There's bigger fish in the pond. I was asked by someone very dear to me to deliver a message."

Sherlock crosses his arms. "My website is public and contains both my email address and phone number. Anyone who thinks my time is worthy of them can call or write instead of breaking into my apartment. As a criminal ploy this is rather pathetic. Nothing was even stolen."

"Oh but Sherlock, this was merely a taster, a foreplay, a prologue of sorts. You have left Baker street, have you not? There is more, more of what could be used against you. Magnussen was wrong, you know. Wrong to think that you would only have one weakness. He could only figure out the biggest and thought that it would be enough to topple your little sand castle."

"I've made peace with my past."

"Have you? No regrets about Istanbul then? Or 1999? How much more would it take that just a remainder to put a chink in your armor? All that was needed for you to run for the hills was a mere reminder of a pathetic twenty-something groupie you once had. You were owed a fall, Holmes, and you were stupid enough to think that pathetic little Richard Brook would be the one to deliver. He was just an exercise."

Sherlock's face is white as a sheet. John swallows. They now know, now that this is not just a banal case of burglary but part of something bigger.

And Waterston keeps smiling like a hyena. "Now I'm being rude. You haven't even had the chance to open your present."

To John it looks like Sherlock accepts the parcel with abandon. It doesn't seem likely that it's a bomb or a biohazard since Waterston himself is still present, but John just wouldn't put it past Moriarty to sacrifice any pawn of his at any time. "Sherlock, wait - -"

Sherlock has already ripped open the grotesque wrapping paper with its smiling teddybears and balloons.

It's a laptop. He turns open the flap and the thing whirrs to live. He sits down does onto the sofa and John feels he has little choice but to sit down next to Sherlock. He wishes he could lay a hand in his shoulder or something, to stop him looking like he's oblivious to anything else but the screen but John decides against it and hates himself a little.

The screen changes from blue to a videochat.

John can hear Sherlock nearly hyperventilating and it can't be just the pain, even though suspending the laptop in midair like that must be agony with broken ribs. John tries to hold onto it to take some weight off Sherlock's hands and Sherlock won't have it because It's Moriarty on the screen. He's wearing a purple shirt a couple sizes too small, a well-cut dark jacket and a blue scarf. John wants to kills something. Moriarty, preferably, if he could.

"There you are, love!" comes the cheery greeting from the speakers and Sherlock nearly drops the laptop. His hands are shaking, John notices and without even thinking covers his right one with his own. "Sherlock."

"Here's me thinking that Matthew here had decided to cut me out of the party! It's be sooooooo long," he drawls and toasts with a glass of champagne. "Didn't think I could stay away too long, did you? You make England interesting, my love. When you're not being domestic and boring with this dullard-," Moriarty nods his head towards John, "Assembling Ikea furniture or whatever it Is you do between dinner and supper when you've nothing interesting on."

John wants to protest that Sherlock actually secretly likes assembling Ikea furniture, as long as John allows him to throw away the instructions first. 'A puzzle with instructions, John! God, what it must be like for you cretins,' Sherlock would always exclaim dramatically and then proceed to assembling everything all wrong. John seems to think this is all very endearing in a way.

"You. Were. Dead." Sherlock sounds like he's having trouble getting even these simple words out. John has alarm bells ringing in his skull like a bad headache. Sherlock used to relish in battling with his sworn arch-enemy. Now, after The Fall, things are clearly different. John kicks himself mentally for not finding out what exactly had happened during Sherlock's long absence but now it was crystal clear that something had changed his view of Moriarty. This was decidedly not fun anymore.

Sherlock had had to die for Moriarty to disappear. Even that had not been enough so what was there left to sacrifice? His innocence? His reputation? Both had already been under fire.

"It's like a bad flu, it's been going around. I'm sure the NHS is doing something about it." Moriarty feigns a yawn. "Anyway, just wanted you to get a chance to catch up with an old friend like Matthew as a taster of what is to come."

"Stop being so bloody cryptic! If you want to kill me, John, everybody else, why won't you just get on with it!"

"Matthew is right, you know. You would have made a terrible criminal. All drama, no patience of finesse. I said I would burn the heart out of you. This I will, oh I so will, but not all at once. There's gotta be a dramatic arc, all your past catching up with you."

"I don't care about the past and nor does John." Sherlock sounds surprisingly confident. John lays his hand on Sherlock's arm as a reassurance.

"That is encouraging. You will play, then, won't you?"

"If by that you mean unraveling every sordid little scheme your twisted brain manages to come up with then yes, I will play. But you can't burn the heart out of me." Sherlock's smile is vile.

For once, Moriarty looks like he doesn't have a condescending retort.

"You can't burn the heart out of me, because I have given it away for much better safekeeping." Sherlock flips down the lip of the laptop, stands up and throws it through the window just as John tackles Waterston down onto the dusty carpet.


	6. Chapter 6

You were on the other side

Like always, you could never make up your mind

And with one kiss

You inspired a fire of devotion

That lasted 20 years

What kind of man loves like this

\- Florence Welch

An hour later the slightly worse for wear Waterston is manhandled into a police car waiting on the curb. After giving a brief statement to Lestrade with a surprisingly normal composure, Sherlock and John retreat back into the apartment.

Sherlock slumps onto the sofa and flings his feet up onto the armrest, wincing as his cracked ribs make themselves known. He's still wearing his shoes and John doesn't even care about the mess.

Suddenly Sherlock shrieks in frustration. "Two fucking years, John! Two fucking years and I never even cut the head of the snake. I'm leaving a trail of bodies and I never even come close to shutting that vile idiot up. What is the bloody point, if my body count will soon start rivaling his?! What is it that actually makes us so bloody different, then?"

"Sherlock." John lays his hand on Sherlock's arm. Sherlock flings a pillow across the room. "Sher. Just stop. You're not him. You don't kill people on a whim or terrorize children just to spite somebody."

"Sometimes I wonder why I bloody bother. It's not like I am in any way compensated for laying my life on the line for humanity. At least I carry my consolation prize with pride."

John pulls Sherlock onto the sofa. Sherlock leans his head on John's shoulder and John doesn't seem to mind. "What on earth are you on about?" John asks.

"You make promises but the end result is the same. Me, here alone. You, Mary."

John looks at him incredulously. "Jesus, Sherlock. I've been waiting for you! I haven't done this before, I have no idea what you want. I'm bloody sick of you thinking I'm some sort of a telepath."

Sherlock huffs in frustration. "I don't know how all this rubbish works! Dates and anniversaries and rules."

"This will never be normal. I know it, Mary knows it and nobody cares. I can't believe you'd be so daft as the expect some sort of a courtship. You're allowed to say what you want, you know. It doesn't have to fit some bloody cliche roadmap you think there is to relationships."

"When I look at you I see evidence of dedication, of fondness, of admiration. They are not synonyms of love."

John looks taken aback, insulted.

"Your machine analogy was false. My feelings exist and they do not have an off switch. It has been quite painful to realize that even though it would be safest for all involved, I can not do this without you. I need… things."

"Anything you need."

"You. In all possible meanings of the world." Sherlock is so tired, to frustrated he no longer cares of the outcome. If this will fail, then me might not even care what Moriarty does or doesn't. If he can't have all of John, right now, the whole world can just burn.

"That's a little abstract. What do you want of me right now?"

Sherlock swallows and dares himself to look John straight in the eye. "Stay."

"You mean…?"

"The night," Sherlock adds with almost a predatory glint in his gaze. John does not seem intimated in the least.

"Yes."

"Yes?" Sherlock looks slightly surprised.

"Oh God, yes."

"Just tonight?"

"I know you're usually the smartest person in the entire post code but sometimes you can be a right idiot, Sherlock. If nothing I have done before that managed to prove it without me actually saying it out loud then here goes. I would walk away from anything but you. I couldn't even if I tried. Whatever you want of me you've had since day one. The only thing that's even been in the way are some of my silly preconceptions of what something like us is supposed to be but I guess it's sort of time to realize that if we're to beat that bastard you need me. All of me. All of us."

Further discussion is unnecessary. Suddenly the distance between them disappear and Sherlock realizes the world is already burning and it feels exquisite. John's hands are in his hair, on the small of his back and they're kissing, kissing like they don't even need air and Sherlock wants to kick himself for not daring to say the words, just say it out loud, for Heaven's sake he isn't usually this pathetically timid and God John smells so good and Sherlock could just die of what John's lips are doing to his ear and - -

"Sherlock, love?" comes a whisper. Sherlock blinks. Twice. "Mm?"

"Stop thinking so bloody loud and kiss me."

\- The End -

The quotes used are as follows:

Chapter 1: from "No Light, No Light" by Florence + The Machine

Chapter 2: from "Make Me Pay" by Kyla La Grange

Chapter 3: from "Sleeping Alone" by Lykke Li

Chapter 4: from "Never Gonna Change" by The Broods

Chapter 5: from "Reasons" by Saint Saviour

Chapter 6: from "What Kind of Man" by Florence + The Machine


End file.
